To Learn is to Live
by BingeMac
Summary: Draco has a hard time sleeping and has no idea what he is going to do with all his free time now that he's out of Azkaban. (QLFC8.0. Go Kestrels!)


A/N- QLFC, Practice Round Submission (Chaser 3)

Hey so this is for the practice round of QLFC season 8 as posted in The Prophet Issue #1. I'll be writing three stories for practice before tryouts. My Keeper one is already available. Here is my story for Chaser 3's prompts:

Main Prompt- There is a list of some of the most beautiful words in the English language. Let the word inspire your story. Your word is Leisure- Free time.

Additional Prompts- 9. (object) pillow, 11. (quote) "Nothing can bring you peace but yourself." -Ralph Waldo Emerson, 12. (action) cooking

I realize that I am completely obsessed with writing Draco Malfoy, and I'm sorry that most of my stories are about him. It's just, he's so goddamn interesting to write a story about. Fanfic Draco is the best!

Word Count: 1404

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Draco had dreamt about his pillow while in Azkaban. He'd dreamt of the way it supported his neck, how it formed perfectly around his cheek as he slept. He dreamt of his pillow case, spelled to keep him from getting too warm or too cool, and how wonderful it was to never wake up with bedhead. He longed for the day he could return to that luxuriously comfortable pillow.

Well, he was home now after his two month stint in Azkaban. And his pillow was _too_ comfortable.

He would toss and turn at night, too aware of his surroundings, of the shadows that darkened the corners of his room, of the distance between his bed and the window. He would manage only to drift off for minutes at a time only to wake up in a panic. He'd listen to his heart beat wildly against his ribcage, a dangerous thumpthump-thumpthump-thumpthump that continued until he finally registered that he was safe. That he was home.

Eventually he gave up on the pillow… he gave up on the whole bed, actually. Draco pulled the comforter off of his mattress and made a little nest on the hardwood floor at the foot of his bed frame. He used his arms as a pillow. Only then could he manage to get to sleep.

And he needed to sleep, but not because he was tired. He was never tired.

No, he needed to sleep because the longer he slept, the less free time he had during the day to wonder what in the world he was going to do with the rest of his abysmal life.

His mother would always ask when the two of them sat down to breakfast each morning, "What do you want to do today, my sweet?"

Draco never had an answer for her. He'd spend most of his days reading or pacing his room or staring blankly out onto the courtyard. He never realized how much magic was an intrinsic part of his sense of self until he no longer had a wand.

Narcissa would find him lying on his floor counting ceiling tiles and she'd ask again, "Are you sure you don't want to go out? We can do whatever you want."

He'd shrug his shoulders and start the count all over again.

"Okay then. Well, you let me know if you think of something," she'd say, leaving his bedroom door ajar as she made her retreat.

Draco would frown up at the ceiling. The problem was, he didn't know what he wanted. He was waiting for someone to tell him what to do, to give him a purpose. It was so much easier than figuring it out for himself.

Draco didn't have much of an appetite these days. As always, the house-elves would create these delicious, extravagant meals for him three times a day, but they tasted like cardboard on his tongue. Most assumed Draco Malfoy loved being doted on by house-elves, that he relished in being a prince in his own home. And once upon a time that might have been true, back before Voldemort took up residence in the manor, back before everything went pear-shaped. He no longer cared to have followers or servants, knowing now what it felt like to be one.

And being served food made him feel like he was still in prison.

His mother would watch him nervously as over the next few weeks Draco grew thinner and thinner. His cheeks were sunken in and his frame was gaunt by the time September 1st rolled around.

A letter had never come for Draco Malfoy. He wouldn't be permitted to return to Hogwarts, to finish his seventh year, to take his NEWTs. Something snarled beneath the surface of his skin, and his stomach roiled with the indignity of it all. An anger crawled its way up his esophagus and burned his throat as it tried claw its way out. He felt righteous and his anger felt justified and…

He was being such a petulant little brat.

Draco swallowed down the degradation and all the grievances that threatened to spill from his mouth, because he didn't deserve to be spoiled anymore. He had probably never deserved it.

He had wasted all this free time he'd had over the past couple of months, because he'd never been good at making his own decisions, of finding a sense of peace and tranquility in his own skin. Draco Malfoy had always needed outside validation, from his parents, from his peers, from his teachers, and from his rivals.

Goldy set a full English breakfast in front of Draco on a decadent platter, and something clicked into place.

"Hey, Goldy," he called out after the fleeing house-elf.

A pair of large tennis ball shaped eyes looked up at Draco with mild trepidation. "Yes, Master?"

Draco flinched at the honorific. "No, I— Um, don't. You don't have to call me that. Umm… I just had a question about my breakfast."

"Is there something wrong with it?" squeaked Goldy.

"No!" Draco replied hastily. Merlin, he was terrible at this. "No, it looks amazing."

And it did look amazing. For the first time in months, maybe even _years_, Draco's mouth watered at the sight of food.

"Then, what can Goldy answer for you?" asked Goldy.

Draco's silver gaze flashed to his mother seated across from him. She was watching him curiously, and he could tell there was a little spark of hope fluttering in her chest.

"I think I know what I want to do today," he admitted wistfully. Draco flicked his attention back to the little creature. "Would you be willing to teach me how to cook this?"

Narcissa gasped, her knife clattering on the ceramic plate.

Draco felt a smile bloom on his lips and a contentedness settle in his heart.

The little house-elf physically startled at the question. He didn't answer right away as if waiting a moment to allow Draco time to unveil his duplicitousness. But Draco wasn't pulling some ridiculous prank. He genuinely wanted to learn to cook.

"Okay," blurted the house-elf. Goldy's cheeks reddened at the abrupt reply, embarrassed by her quick response.

"Amazing!" Draco hopped form his seat, gathering his meal up. He turned to his mother. "You don't mind if I…?"

Narcissa blinked. "What— _now_? You want to learn _now_?"

"If that's okay…"

"Yes, darling! Go," Narcissa demanded, waving her son off with a flick of her dainty wrist. "I'll just be here—" She looked around and grabbed the newspaper delivered earlier that day. "I'll be here reading this morning's Prophet!"

Draco saw his mother's lips twitch into a pleased grin as he followed Goldy to the Manor's kitchens, the plate in his hands wafting the delectable smell of his full English into his nostrils.

It took an hour to fully convince the rest of the staff that Draco truly wanted to learn to cook. But once that was resolved, the five house-elves were over the moon to teach the young Malfoy every form of cooking they could think of. He learned the difference between broiling and baking and frying and boiling. He was shown the correct way to cut a white onion which was to be the main ingredient in the soup they were having for that day's lunch. He learned how to knead dough for rolls to have with supper, and how to torch a creme brûlée. He learned so much and there was still so much more to learn tomorrow.

When Draco crawled into bed that night, he was exhausted. His pillow formed perfectly to his cheek and supported his neck. He drifted off to sleep, peacefully. He'd found a way to fill his free time and he'd come up with it all on his own.

Since that day, Draco cooked his own meals and cleaned his own dishes up afterwards. It felt nice to do something with his hands, to learn a skill that kept out the doubts that had been plaguing his waking thoughts on a daily basis.

He knew if a younger Draco could see him now, he would think he'd gone mad, would probably even assume he was an imposter. But his younger self was a right tosser, so what did his opinion matter. Maybe Draco _was_ an imposter. Maybe he was an _entirely_ different person. What was so wrong with that?


End file.
